


I got you, babe.

by ssleif



Category: Teen Wolf (TV), X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: M/M, Mission Fic, Mutants, Undercover Relationship, light gore, minor Malia AU, xmen au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-20
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2019-02-17 10:58:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13075431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssleif/pseuds/ssleif
Summary: X-Men AU/fusion where Sterek are on a mission, pretending to be on a date. It all goes sideways, of course.





	I got you, babe.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Estelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Estelle/gifts).



> For hazelestelle. I saw you were a Cherik fan as well, so I hoped this au might be a good fit. Mutual pining, a touch of fake relationship, some hurt/comfort, and mostly-sfw fluff to finish. Hope it works for you, and that I got your AO3 name right!
> 
> The Higher Rating is for accidentally graphic Wound descriptions, not sex. XD
> 
> I went with sort-of Rouge/wolverine powers for the boys (derek is p much still a werewolf). Lydia is telepathic, probably. XD

“Target on the move, headed for your six.”

“Stiles.”

“I mean your ten.”

“Stiles.”

“Noon.”

“STILES.” Derek hissed, trying not to let his face betray his frustration. “Stiles. I can see him in the mirror above the bar. And do you even know how to use those directions? Noon and six are directly opposite each other.”

Stiles waggled his eyebrows in a manner that Derek assumed was supposed to convey something significant, but managed to mostly convey: Dork. He sighed.

“It’s easier to pretend to be a couple on a first or second date when you don’t make me want to strangle you. Or pull your guts out. With my claws.”

“Aw, sugarwolf, I know you don’t mean it.” And Stiles grinning through, ugh, a mouthful of pasta should not have been as cute as it was, but he was right. Derek didn’t mean it.

Derek didn’t mean it so hard that he’d been dodging Lydia out of fear she’d "pick up" on his disgustingly sappy feelings for weeks now.

It had been fine, Derek thought, until Stiles had gone on the Chicago mission. He’d had to subdue some actor who was in league with the brotherhood, and she’d put up a hell of a fight. In the end, Stiles had had to pull more from her than he intended, which Derek knew he hated doing, since it usually meant he pulled a little _personality_  along with the energy and mutation.

But in that case… Derek had suddenly realized just how screwed he was. When Stiles walked off that jet, he’d almost been swaggering. He'd later confessed to Derek that although her actual personality (liked honey mustard, hated butterscotch, could never turn the television off if a dog show was on), had faded very quickly, her confidence had lingered. Stiles had tried to explain to him what that felt like, that certainty that all eyes were on you, and for good reason. The pride in her work, her art, her desire to convey the authenticity of her character. Stiles explained that there was a particular way of walking that just… people would move. And that knowledge, that of course they would, that of course you were… all of that… yeah.

Derek was screwed. He’d known Stiles for years, both more or less growing up in the Xavier mansion for most of their teenage years, and for more than a few of those years, Derek had been harboring, maybe, a tiny little crush on him. Just a little one. Just, like, a desire to see him happy, every day, forever, and if Stiles would let Derek be the one to make that happen??? Well. Derek wouldn’t have turned that down.

But the little flashes and sparks of feeling and desire he’d been fighting off for years, those had nothing on the instant surge of heat he felt went Stiles walked off that jet like he was headed for murder. That comfort in himself, that confidence, that physicality…

Yeah. Derek was fucked.

So he’d been avoiding Lydia, until he could figure out how to downplay his sudden an overwhelming desire to Have Stiles on any surface that would support them, and then feed him cookies after, even knowing Stiles would probably have made some stupid joke about “mating” and “providing”.

But Stiles, he’s pretty sure, isn’t interested in him that way. Oh sure, Derek knows he’s bisexual, but just because he likes guys, doesn’t mean he likes Derek. And Stiles has had a pretty good string of one-night stands over the years, as far as Derek can ~~smell~~ tell. And he never picked up any of the hints Derek has dropped.

Which, that’s fine. Derek was mature enough to know that if Stiles wasn’t interested in long-term relationships, at least right now, starting something with him would be foolish. And selfish. And sad.

But oh god. He wanted.

So he’d been avoiding Lydia, right up until she cornered him that morning, told him he was stupid and gross (which he knew), and ordered him to report to the hangar like she was his general or something (she kind of was).

And now they were here, “undercover” on a “date”, trying to figure out if some mutant the Professor had seen was causing trouble on their own, or in connection with that group of assholes led by ~~the professor’s ex husband~~ Magneto.

“… which I was not responsible for, by the way, no matter what Danny- Shit. He’s moving.”

Derek tried not to let his eyes flash, as he focused on the disappearing coat of their wayward telepath in the mirror.

“Into the back alley,” he asked, quietly, “or the bathroom?” and Stiles nodded.

“Bathrooms, I think. Well, I kind of-”

“Nope.” Derek cut him off and then, for show, made an apologetic face as he appeared to excuse himself, and head for relief.

Stiles scowled for a very brief moment, sensitive about Derek’s continued insistence that he be the most physically vulnerable one at all times, before schooling his face, and returning to his pasta.

Derek didn’t give a shit about Stiles’ feeling on that subject, and they’d had that fight a few times. Stiles’ case was always that he could take care of himself… which he absolutely could. Derek didn’t disagree. There was a reason they were both so often used to fill out missions that required a more combat-heavy team. Stiles was more than decent at hand-to-hand, and he could knock out his opponent flat, if he wanted, with a little skin-to-skin contact.

But Derek had a goddamn _Healing Factor_. So. Stiles could suck it up, and eat his pasta, and watch Derek’s back as he ventured into the potential trap.

It was not a trap. The man was in front of a urinal when Derek entered, so he courteously took one several dividers away and proceeded about his own business. The man finished, and washed his hands, and Derek followed suit, very carefully thinking only about the meal, and the restaurant, and Stiles. When Lydia had debriefed them, she’d explained that the Telepath seemed to be more intra-skilled, than inter, likely to pick up on a deliberate move on his mind (hence why no other telepaths were assigned to the mission), but not particularly gifted outside of his own head, and so _unlikely_  to “eavesdrop” on them and see them coming.

Very carefully still focused on Stiles, Derek waited a moment for the other Mutant to leave, and then exited the bathroom himself.

And was immediately tackled.

“I’ve got you, you piece of-”

By Stiles.

“Shi- Derek. Hi. Crap.”

Stiles had one glove three-quarters off by the time he realized who he was on top of, and in the surprised silence that followed, they both heard the click of the door to the alley closing.

In a moment, they were both on their feet again, stumbling towards it as quickly as possible, Derek shoving his way in front, and shoving Stiles down towards knee height, which Stiles turned into a roll, just as Derek had intended. Come in at different heights, and at least the enemy couldn’t get you both-

The door slammed open, and Derek slammed into a fight.

He popped his claws and pulled back, blocking a punch (sizzling with electricity) that was aimed at his face, deflecting it with his coat-covered forearm, ducking the next one, trying desperately to figure out who the good guys were… if there were any.

He recognized all three of the black-clad folks (including the Kitsune, who he was fighting, and a scaly mutant who was swinging at Stiles) as members of the brotherhood, making the new mutant, who, it seemed, had a knife and was making a reasonable show of holding off (aw hell. shit) his bloodthirtsty  _cousin_ , a temporary ally.

Derek spotted his opening and, already lamenting the loss of his second-best shirt, hooked his right foot behind his opponent’s left knee, swept her feet out, and threw himself at Malia Before the Kitsune hit the ground. Her claws tore through sleeve, forearm, jacket, shirt and torso, but he grabbed on, took advantage of the surprise, and spun her while taking out her knees as well. With her suddenly face-down in the dirt, he pulled both arms behind her, not being particularly careful of either of their claws, and put a knee in the middle of her back. Even as solidly muscled as he knew her to be, he was still bigger.

He looked up to find the new mutant with his hands on the Kitsune's face, as the woman’s eyes rolled up and her head lolled, and to see Stiles finally shove _his_ opponent into the wall hard enough that he dropped like a sack of rocks.

But then Stiles dropped too.

Derek flinched, desperately wanting to go to him, but knowing he couldn’t let Malia up. He pulled cuffs out of his remaining jacket pocket and slapped them on her, giving the new mutant the side-eye, and then gesturing him over with his head.

“Put your weight-”

But the man ignored him, instead sliding his hand into her hair, closing his eyes, and looking serious.

Her body went lax.

Derek practically leapt up, dashing across the alley to Stiles, knowing their backup had heard the fight and was probably moments from them… close enough for everyone but Stiles to be someone else’s problem.

Derek dropped to his knees, and gingerly lifted one of Stiles’ arms so he could see what Stiles was hunched so protectively over.

Oh. Okay.

There was a fair amount of blood, and Stiles’ face was pretty white, but although the rents in Stiles’ formerly nice green shirt showed deep cuts, some of them deep enough that Derek could identify dermal and fat layers… the cuts were all high on his chest, and most of the major vessels had been missed. He’d taken the last hit largely on his sternum, which explained the pained gasping of a person struggling to regain their breath after having the wind knocked out of them.

“Hey, hey,” Derek said, catching Stiles’ more-than-a-little-panicked gaze, “Hey, they aren’t that bad. You’re gonna make it."

Stiles didn’t quite look like he believed Derek, maintaining both the pressure he had on his chest with his left hand, and the grip on Derek’s sleeve (What was left of it)), with his right.

Derek saw their temporary comrade slump against and slide down one wall, obviously exhausted, just as he heard the static come through his earpiece.

“Wolfman,” a voice said, tinny and more distorted than usual, “We’re engaging a group of Brotherhood, probably the backup for the guys you two have hopefully taken out.”

“Copy,” Derek replied, knowing whoever was in the jet still, probably Lydia or McCall, could hear. “Dyson is down”, and clearly in rough shape, since he didn’t bother reacting to the stupid code name, “But alive. We won’t be moving anywhere yet, but we can wait until you clean up your share.”

“Copy. You’re such a dick,” came the reply.

Derek did not bother responding, just started tearing apart the remaining clean-ish parts of his former dress shirt to press against Stiles’ lacerations.

Stiles gave him a half-hearted smile.

“Some day,” he panted, “ you two. Are going to. Learn to. Like eachother!” he ended on a gasp, clearly not yet stable enough for speech.

“Shut up. Don’t be stupid.”

Stiles looked a little smug, but it was quickly lost as the strain of his wounds caught him again.

They sat like that for a few more minutes, Derek trying not to wonder if the make-shift dressing was getting warmer, wetter, soaking through.

Stiles’s eyelids drooped for a moment, and Derek was on him.

“Don’t you dare pass out. I am not sitting in this alley with your unconcious body all night.

Stiles’ eyes popped open a little.

When they drooped the second time, Derek leaned over and blew cold breath right in his ear.

Stiles’ eyes popped open again, but Derek didn’t straighten up, staying hunched half over him, hands pressed as tightly to his chest as he could, he thought, without making it harder to breathe.

They locked eyes like that for a moment, but then Stiles' started to close again.

Derek was done.

“Fuck it,” he said, moving one hand away to take hold of Stiles’s gloved hand. Stiles’ eyes widened, and he shook his head.

“No,” Derek insisted, “Fuck that. If maybe getting a little bit of my mood or whatever is really so bad, I won't make you.” Derek stared straight into Stiles’ still-clear (but fighting) gaze. “But I live with it all the time, and I don’t think it’s worse than slowly bleeding in an alley. Christ.”

Stiles looked scared, and then mutinous, and then resigned.

“Fine,” He choked out, starting to cough, face screwing up in agony as they both tried to keep pressure on his chest.

Derek barely waited for him to catch his breath, whipped the glove off Stiles' hand, and lifted Stiles’ arm by the wrist, encouraging him to grab Derek by the bicep, through the convenient holes in his clothing, over the newly-pinked skin.

Stiles gripped weakly for a moment… and then he let his mutation kick in, and his hand clamped down like a vise.

For Derek, the alley started spinning as he went light-headed with exhaustion. He started to sway, but then Stiles’ other hand, now somehow de-gloved as well, came up to grab him at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, steadying him, keeping him in place.

By the time he felt the cuts on his own body start to open again, and saw the deeper wounds on Stiles’ getting shallow, he was seeing double. Stiles let it go on for another moment, until Derek could feel the hand on his bicep start to loose traction in the blood, before he let it go, and returned his hands to safely clothed parts of Derek’s arms.

They both sat there panting, holding eachother up, bleeding sluggishly as they came back to themselves.

“You,” Derek gasped a little, “You didn’t finish-” He gasped again. “You’re still…” Stiles shook his head, and then leaned in again, and rested it on Derelk’s shoulder.

“I’m no worse… than you are now… buddy.”

Derek wanted to object.

“But I will heal-”

Derek felt Stiles shaking his head.

“Not while I’m… holding this… much of you… hostage.”

Derek still wanted to argue, but he was just too tired. Instead, he dropped his arm down to Stiles’ waist and pulled them parallel, leaning back towards the wall he was mostly certain was right behind him.

It was. They both slumped.

“You guys,” the new mutant said, from his mirror position ten feet away, “are strange as fuck.”

Derek didn’t bother with a response.

 

_fin_

  
PS: The backup shows. The whole mess is dragged into the jet, telepaths, brotherhood, stubborn asses and all.

PPS: They both spend a night in the infirmary, healing faster than Stiles normally would, but slower than Derek. They make significant eye contact, but don’t really talk.

PPPS: Derek sleeps for eighteen hours when he’s finally left alone in his bunk, with no well-meaning folks poking him and checking his bandages and shit every hour.

PPPPs: Derek starts getting worried when he returns to his regular duties, and Stiles is no where to be found. Everyone assures him that Stiles is just fine. Derek figures Stiles is avoiding him.

P(5)s: Stiles shows up at his door two weeks later, at 10 at night. He has two churros, one half-eaten, clearly stolen from the kitchen, clutched in his left hand. He thrusts them at Derek and shoves his way in.

P(6)s: Their first kiss tastes like cinnamon and sugar.

P(7)s: Stiles explains that it only took so long, because he was waiting until he could be sure that the him that started something was _just_  him, not Derek-flavored him. It took that long to clear most of his Derek-draw from his system. To be clear: it wasn’t that he didn’t want this, or wasn’t sure if he did. But he knew the quickest way to kill anything they might have, was to give Derek reason to doubt Stiles was acting 100% consensually and of his own free will.

P(8)s: Stiles hadn’t needed the Derek-spiced thoughts he'd borrowed to figure that out. He’d _enjoyed_  the little bits of his friend in his head, but he’d already known, he was pretty sure, an unhealthy amount about Derek. Certainly everything important.

P(9)s: Their second kiss also tastes of cinnamon and sugar.

P(too many)s: There are still crumbs in Derek’s bed the next morning, but there is also a Stiles in Derek’s bed the next morning, So he doesn’t care. Even a little bit.

They sleep in.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, so obviously Stiles has a less-tragic version of Rouge's power, mostly inspired by what I remember of the first Xmen movie's fanfiction, way back when. XD
> 
> My headcanon for this verse is that Sterek are approx the same age in relation to ProfX that Bobby and the teens are, and that they may have had, say, cyclops as an instructor, and Xavier def runs the school (when He's not busy fighting his ex). XD so, somewhere between fusion and crossover.


End file.
